


1483

by SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses (2016), The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Princess (TV), The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood





	1483

The Palace of Westminster  
April 1483

The chamber was too hot,  
damn it. Everything was sticky with sweat, his sheets felt wet. He couldn’t stand it, struggled to move, fought to get out of bed. His shoulders were pushed to the bed by strong arms. “Ned, no.” Edmund spoke, for a minute cooling his skin to ice. “You must not, you are too weak.” 

Too weak? From what? This whole affair had been a dream. Edmund sat on the bed beside him, released the pressure from his shoulders. Had he fallen from his horse? Hit his head?

Why then was there the pain in his stomach? An insufferable agony which made his cry out and cough as he moved. This felt like death, he was sure. 

“Edmund I-“

“It’s not Edmund, Ned.” The voice sounded surprised. A hand brushed the hair from his  
face, wiped sweat with a damp cloth. 

He was lying, there was nothing else for it. 

“It’s Will.” 

Will? He could not focus long enough to think who was Will. Could not focus on anything as Edmund faded before his eyes. Revealing a man with greyish hair and beard, showing a man who held his hand. A man he somewhat recognised. 

“Edmund. Come back. Come back.” He wailed, his voice surprisingly weak, his body feeling more inflamed. He could not help it as he vomited. Cried out as he tried too hard to sit. Pain ripped through his body. 

“Shhh, hush my love.” He recognised the woman’s voice. Recognised the dark brown hair of the woman at the end of his bed, rubbing his feet. Gently she massaged, propping his feet on cushions. 

Eleanor. His first love, first throw away. Eleanor. So many regrets, though he could not speak. Could only watch as she was so tender to him. 

He did not deserve it. 

“Nell.” He whispered. “I’m sorry, I am sorry.” 

For a moment the massage stopped, resumed, moving slowly up the base of his leg, focusing on his ankle. It helped the ache, for when she stopped it felt like grip upon his legs. Every muscle screamed. 

“Papa.” He whispered as his father approached the bed. “Papa.” He reached one hand out, trying to touch the man who was oh so near but his hand met nothing. He could not help it, could not stop the fears as they left his eyes. Why was God taunting him? Why?

***

He was dying, her husband was dying.

She rubbed his feet, they had been swelling. Ankles soft with fluid. Hobbes had monitored, soon he had he would have to drain it, that massage may help. Ned still called out in pain sometimes. His confusion still evident. Too many times now he had asked if he was in hell, that purgatory was too painful, that he knew he had sinned. Of course the priest had often reassured him. Yet he would not stop reeling off a list of dead - talking as though they were beside him. 

William Hastings held his hand, gently stroking his palm, desperate to reassure him, to ground him back in reality - for what? To realise his own mortality?

He did not have long, and of that Elizabeth was sure. Not long at all. 

“Beth?” He whispered, trying to kick her away. “Leave it.” He sounded so weak, so defeated. She almost choked on her tears. 

“My love.” Her hands stopped their work, she moved, walking around the bed, she clambered next to him, kissing his cheek as she huddled up to him. His skin was burning up. “The wedding, they do not know.” Tears ran freely down her face, though she tried to keep her voice steady.

“No love they don’t.” 

It was several minutes before he spoke again. “You poisoned me.” 

“Ned.”

“Get away from time. Will.” He tried to shout as though the man he called for was not sat, crying beside him. “Will, take her away, lock her away she tried to poison me.” 

She did not object, only moved away, beginning to sob. How could a great man be reduced to this? He had no appetite, and his body rejected Hobbes alternatives. He was as thin as a twig, ribs now visible. His mind had all but left him. Whatever curse this was...

He cried out again. “There’s blood. Am I dying?” He looked to Will for answers. 

Will nodded, though his words contradicted. “No Ned, you need to rest, sleep, it will help.” 

Edward nodded, closing his eyes, whimpering. She could watch no longer, could not torture herself so. She walked toward the door, parting Will on the back as she left. It was only as she entered the antechamber she saw her son, Thomas, heading toward the door.

“Don’t love, don’t.”

“He summoned me.”

She wanted to say he did not know who he summoned, but she refrained. It was not worth it. Her eyes closed momentarily as she heard her husband’s scream of pain, saw his body spasm as Thomas opened the door. 

She could not turn back as she walked toward the door.

He was dying. He was dying.


End file.
